


The Saltwater Ridge

by KelpietheThundergod



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, DBBB 2016, Explicit Sexual Content, Hunting, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season/Series 08, Slow Burn, and no DeanCas hate, contains no Cas hate, no Sam hate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-28 06:19:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7628374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod/pseuds/KelpietheThundergod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benny sits at the table, calm but determined, while Dean paces erratically back and forth in the narrow space between the beds and the door. Finally, he stalks over to the window, stares out into the parking lot for several minutes with an unreadable expression on his face. His voice is rough and sounds brittle when he suddenly asks, “Where would we even go?” His tone isn't derisive but on the edge of hopeless, as if he doesn't believe there could ever be a place of rest for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Saltwater Ridge

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank [kuwlshadow ](http://kuwlshadow.tumblr.com)for the wonderful art - it was a joy to work with you! A very big thank you also to my beta reader [anactorya](http://anactorya.tumblr.com/), who went out of her way to give me encouraging feedback and helpful suggestions. Without you this story wouldn't be what it is now.
> 
> I also want to say thank you to my dear friend [androbeaurepaire](http://androbeaurepaire.tumblr.com/), whose excitement for this story when it was just a handful of vague ideas was the reason for me to participate in this challenge, and who I dedicate this story to.

 

 

 

_starfire fell onto the mountains_

_and it died_

_now we fill the holes_

_with water from our hands_

 

 

It's three weeks after getting back topside that Benny gets the call. He's standing under a tree in the half-shadow, with his shades on. Just a step away from where sunlight is warming the asphalt. The phone is cheap, bought at a convenience store. The plastic is silver and black. Already scratched. But it did its job when he sent Dean his number. And he hasn’t heard back.

Dean's number, hastily scribbled on a piece of paper, is flashing on the screen now.

He punches the accept button, moves the phone to his ear. Before he can get a word out, Dean is asking, scratchy through the connection, “Can we meet somewhere?”

Benny doesn't know what this is about. Dean seems to be trying for casual, but there's a tense undercurrent to his tone. So Benny doesn't ask. He shifts out of the shadows, steps onto the sun-warmed sidewalk. Suggests a diner several miles from his current location, just to be safe. He doesn't know where Dean is. Dean didn't say.

Dean replies, “Give me five hours, tops.” Then he hangs up.

Benny ends up hitch-hiking it up there. He hasn't felt like getting a car yet.

The truck driver who takes him the final stretch of the way doesn't talk except to ask where he's headed. It's just as well. He's been enjoying the silence. Enjoys watching the green scenery fly past. He's missed living nature more than he was aware of. One forgets many things, down in Purgatory.

Dean was headed to find his brother. That's what he said before they parted ways at Benny's grave, “I need to find my brother.” Dean had held true to his promise of resurrecting Benny. Had smiled, and returned Benny's hug. Smelled like warm sweat and earth, his heart beating wildly against Benny's chest from exertion and pain. But there was a haunted look in his eyes, his expression carefully controlled, his movements unconsciously twitchy. Benny didn't ask what happened. Didn't ask about _Cas_.

He had his own ghosts to hunt and be haunted by.

On the radio, someone sings about the _big blue Spanish sky_. _I've got the time to wonder why she left me_. But the connection is fizzling out, and the truck driver changes the station with an impatient sound.

It's a pop music station, apparently. The truck driver makes a disgusted noise, but leaves it on. The connection is more stable. Benny doesn't really care. He's curious, actually. There's so much he's missed, so much to catch up on. A lot of things seem faster, nowadays.

The sun is coming in from the other side, making dust particles dance over the truck driver's wrinkly hands on the steering wheel, so Benny has taken off his shades. He's not a big fan of wearing them, of how they tinge all the colors into darker ones. But he is what he is.

The next song comes on, something less upbeat and more soulful, with a tune he thinks he remembers from different times. He hums along, and ignores the truck driver's judgmental sidelong glance.

>

He thanks the truck driver and hands him some money. The man just grunts in reply and nods, moves the truck back onto the road. He didn't even kill the engine, didn't think to stop. Benny can't remember where he said he was headed.

He puts his shades back on, walks through the parking lot up to the diner. It's still not quite noon, and there are only a handful of cars, most of them dusty from the road and with rust creeping up from their undersides. Except one black car the size of a small boat. It shines as if to spite the gravel it is resting on, the windshield reflecting the sky.

Inside the diner it's not as bright as outside, sunbeams slicing through the half-drawn blinds and throwing patterns on the tables and the worn linoleum floor. He takes his shades off and nods at the waitress lazily filling the coffee machine behind the counter, her graying hair done up in curls and her nails painted bright red. He looks around, spots Dean at a far table to his right, staring out the window, a half-empty cup of coffee in front of him. He seems tense, lost in thought, which is a strange look on him. Benny knows Dean as focused, senses keen and alert. It's a bit perplexing.

Dean does look up when he comes near, and there is wariness for a split second until Dean recognizes him and smiles. He gets up and pulls Benny into a one-armed hug, thumps him on the back. He smells different, like leather and sun-warmed air.

“Good to see you, brother,” Benny says, and means it. He hasn't had a friend like Dean in a very, very long time. Doesn't have friends at all, right now. He doesn't mind being alone, most of the time. But he feels better, with Dean here. With someone who knows him.

“Good to see you too,” Dean is saying, taking a step back. “You look, uh–” He makes a vague gesture at Benny with one hand, “good.”

Benny snorts. “Yeah, sunlight does magic for a guy's health.” He squints and holds up his shades for Dean to see.

Dean huffs out a laugh, is about to sit down again when he hesitates. “Should we, uh. Move?”

Benny eyes his side of the booth, which is currently in shadow, then briefly looks outside. The sun won't move that way. “Nah, it's fine.” He puts his shades back on, sits down. Dean hesitates a moment longer, then sits down as well, scoots towards the window until he's sitting directly opposite Benny. He must have a good view of the door that way.

Dean motions at the waitress to have his cup filled again. The slices of sunlight through the blinds highlight the lighter strands in his hair, the forest green of his eyes. There's slight stubble around his jaw and dark bags under his eyes. His clothes are rumpled and his fingers are playing nervously with a pack of salt.

The waitress comes over, refills Dean's coffee. “Nothin' for me, thank you,” Benny says when she asks.

“Okay, suga'”, she drawls, then shuffles off again.

He's about to ask Dean how he's doing when Dean beats him to the punch, as if he's sensed the question coming.

“So, what you been up to?” he asks, takes a sip of coffee and fixes Benny with a look, all business.

Benny shrugs. “Still tryin' to find my sea legs, if you get my drift.”

Dean grimaces and nods. “Yeah, I feel you.” A shadow of something like bitterness passes over his face, but then his expression is smoothed over again. He raises the cup to his mouth. It's already almost empty. “So, what you doing up here? Thought you'd be enjoying the Mardi Gras and crawfish by now,” he asks, his tone wavering between amused and skeptical.

Benny smiles wryly. “Just takin' my time,” he drawls. Adds, when Dean raises his eyebrows at him in question. “Used to live around here as well, once.” He looks out the gaps in the blinds, watches the hemlock trees move in the soft breeze. “Nice to be somewhere that feels real, y'know?”

He looks over again when Dean doesn't reply. Dean is staring down at the table, a far-away look on his face. Then he shrugs, nods without meeting Benny's eyes. “I guess.” He seems closed-off again, so Benny decides on the whole truth.

He throws a look around, but no one is sitting near them. The waitress is half-heartedly cleaning the counter, a fan is rattling on the ceiling and music is playing quietly somewhere in the back.

“I'm huntin' the vampire who turned me. My maker.”

When he looks back at Dean, he's raised his head, and his eyes are clear and focused. He shoves his coffee cup aside, crosses his arms and leans closer over the table. It shifts the sunbeams falling over him, leaving his face in shadow and instead shining on his busted knuckles, the sharp teeth of his jacket's zipper.

“Tell me.”

>

That's how it starts.

They agree to leave the diner, to drive back to the abandoned fishing boat Benny's been squatting in. He's a little surprised to see the black car is Dean's. The turning radius of the thing is something else, but Dean drives it so smoothly, so effortlessly, as if he's done it his whole life. Benny's got to admit the car's quite comfortable and pleasantly free from cigarette or plastic fumes. Though it does smell a little bit of dog.

Dean grimaces when he asks him about it. “Fucking Sam. My brother,” he adds when Benny looks at him in question. “Don't ask. I don't wanna talk about it.” His expression is sullen and his fingers tighten momentarily around the steering wheel.

Benny sighs. “Alright.”

Dean relaxes again after a couple more miles, shifts in his seat to rest one hand on his thigh, tapping some kind of silent rhythm against it. “So, spill. What's your beef with your maker?”

Benny takes a breath, leans back against the leather. He hasn't told this story to anyone but himself. And even then, he's sometimes skipped the gruesome parts to hold on to the faded feeling of sweet soft tenderness. Other times, he focused on the cruel faces of those who brutally crushed what was most precious to him, to keep himself going.

On some level, he understands it's an old story. Older than him. But it's still also his.

He starts talking, the black car keeps eating the miles, and Dean listens.

>

Two days later, Benny is watching the flames eat his old home.

Somewhere inside is the beheaded body of the woman he once loved.

Dean is standing by his side. He has his face turned away from the fire, staring at the forest floor. Not saying anything, because there is nothing to say–Benny is grateful that he understands that–but not leaving either. His steady heartbeat that Benny can hear even over the roar of the flames is the last tether he clings to while he feels like he is slipping away from himself. Away, and into the dark between the trees. Away into the ashes of wooden hallways and heavy curtains. Away, into the abyss behind sharp blood-stained teeth.

Dean is saying his name. It sounds like he's said it several times already, trying to get his attention.

“We better scram. You good?”

Benny turns towards him. Half of Dean's face is in shadow, the other half illuminated by the light of the fire. He's frowning, looking concerned.

Concerned about Benny. It seems so misplaced, now.

He's trying to convey that somehow when he says, “I don't know what I am.”

Dean is peering intently into his eyes. Then he sets his jaw. “Well, I know one thing, and that is you ain't stayin' here. C'mon.” He takes Benny by the arm, coaxes him around and leads him back to their stolen dinghy. Drives them back to the pier, because all Benny can do is stare at the water. It looks black in the starless night.

He barely notices when the boat stops.

Dean offers him a hand up, and after a moment, he takes it.

>

Dean sticks around after that.

He drives them back to the fishing boat, gets Benny's few belongings, and stuffs the bag next to Benny's cooler in the space between the front and the back seats.

They drive. Benny doesn't ask where.

Dean finally stops the car on the shoulder. The engine ticks while it cools down. They haven't spoken a word the entire time. Now, Dean sighs, asks, “You gonna be okay if I catch a couple hours sleep in the back?”

Benny nods, mutely.

Dean claps him on the shoulder, gets out the front seat and out of the car, then squeezes himself into the back. There's the rustling of fabric as he tries to find a comfortable position, then just the sound of his slowly deepening breathing.

Benny spends the rest of the night sitting on the hood of the car. The low-hanging clouds from earlier have mostly lifted, and here, far away from city lights, the stars cover the entire sky. He watches them. They soothe him and fill him with longing at once.

>

There's only the barest hint of light over the horizon when Dean scrambles out the back. He looks worse for wear; his hair mussed and the black smudges under his eyes more pronounced than before instead of less. Benny absently noticed Dean's heart rate picking up several times, but last night his focus was inward, and he was barely aware of anything around him.

Dean leans against the door, rubs at his eyes and squints at Benny, who's still perched on the hood. “Mornin',” he mumbles, then twists as if to work a kink out of his back. He motions at the woods at the other side of the road. “I gotta go hit the head.” He comes back smelling like cheap portable hand sanitizer and morning dew.

Dean settles himself on the hood beside Benny with jerky movements, rubs at his face again. He's wearing the same jacket as yesterday, and it still smells faintly of smoke. “Hey, you need some–” He motions vaguely at the backseat, at where Benny's cooler is. “Cause I _really_ need some caffeine.”

Benny thinks for a moment but then shakes his head. “Nah, I'm good for now.” He supposes it's not entirely true, but not a lie either. He feels lighter than last night. But not quite there yet that he feels like “eating”.

Dean nods, gives him a tight smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Gets off the hood. “Let's go, then.”

>

Dean orders pancakes with a side of bacon, but barely eats any of it. He knocks back two cups of coffee like it's water, his eyes constantly scanning the room for god knows what. He's sitting with the door in his line of sight again.

“You know, I found a thing in the news yesterday that sounds like a salt 'n burn, couple towns over,” Dean says. His fingers are curled around his empty cup, worrying nervously at the chipped ceramic. “You feel like playin' back-up?”

It's overcast today, so Benny isn't wearing his shades inside. Has been watching people file in and out the parking lot. He doesn't really feel like anything. He knows he doesn't wanna be alone.

“Never fought a ghost before,” he replies, actually finds himself smiling a bit. “Could be fun.”

>

They've been digging up the grave for over two hours when Dean says, “Sam hit a dog and met a girl.” Benny pauses and looks at him. The sweat on Dean's forehead shines in the dim light of the lantern and his mouth is forming a thin tight line. “He doesn't know yet if he'll go back to–” Dean briefly pauses to motion vaguely at the graveyard. “–this.” He keeps digging.

“Okay,” Benny replies at length, “got it.” He's not quite sure where this just came from. What Dean's offhand tone and his closed-off expression mean.

He's about to go back to digging when Dean adds, slightly out of breath from the exertion, “It's good, you know. Him getting out.” He's still not looking at Benny. It's almost as if he's talking to himself. “It's what I always wanted for him. It's good.” He nods to himself.

Benny just looks at him, because it doesn't seem like anything he could say would reach Dean right now. Dean doesn't appear to notice. His shovel hits something solid, and one corner of his mouth tugs up in a slight grin. “Yahtzee.”

They pour accelerant over the bones of the poor sap haunting the B&B on 54, and then Dean holds the matches out to him. They watch the flames for a moment and Dean shifts beside him, clears his throat. “So, what you think of it?” It takes Benny a moment to understand he's talking about hunting.

He hums thoughtfully for a moment, then replies, “Dunno yet.” It's the truth. From what he's told Benny, it sounds like Dean has been hunting almost his whole life. Benny sometimes thinks he'd like to work in a bar, maybe even open a diner. Not yet, though. Maybe not for a couple years. He doesn't feel ready for peace yet. Having something to do in the meantime, something that helps people–don't sound so bad.

“Hm.” Dean is quiet for a moment, then takes a breath as if bracing himself for something. “There's some werewolf trouble up in Michigan. You up to it?”

Benny thinks about it for a moment. He would like to go back to Louisiana. On the other hand, maybe getting away from his past for while would do him some good. Yeah.

He turns to Dean, catches his eyes and smirks. “Sounds like my kinda trouble.”

>

It's a hike up there. Benny doesn't mind, though it does take some convincing to get Dean to make longer stops than it takes to buy a cup of joe and fill the tank and take a piss. He enjoys watching the scenery, but however comfortable Dean's car may be, he needs to stretch his legs and just stand still sometimes. Dean seems to be able to drive hours at a time, though he does twist his back sometimes when they stop and makes a pained sound. He declines Benny's offer of help, ducking away from his hands, his shoulders up at his ears. It's a stark contrast to how at ease he usually appears in Benny's presence.

They drive through the wide open plains of Montana and North Dakota, through Minnesota and Wisconsin. In between, they stay in motels for the night, though probably only due to Benny saying he wants to stay longer than it takes to shower.

The furniture in their second motel room looks worn and the wood paneling ugly and cheap, but the water in the shower is hot and the pressure excellent. He takes his time and expects Dean to do the same, but he's barely sat down with his cooler and started zapping through the channels on the tiny television–more out of curiosity than any real desire to watch something–when Dean comes out the bathroom again, already completely clothed, scrubbing a towel through his wet hair.

Dean throws a distracted look at the television, moves over to his bed. Rummages through his duffel, then sits down at the narrow wooden table and starts to field strip and clean his .45.

The last channel Benny stopped at was a baseball game. It doesn't really interest him but he leaves it on for the moment, the volume low. He's been wanting to learn about all the things he's missed, a desire maybe born out of the effort to ground himself in the here and now. He's realized pretty quickly that Dean isn't exactly up to date with these things either, and not just because he spent a year away in Purgatory. He doesn't seem to care for the TV and all the music he listens to in his car is on tapes with fading labels.

He stood by during one of the interviews Dean did at the B&B, trying to find out whose ghost was causing the disturbances. Dean had smiled politely, his eyes sharp, his words careful. He'd stayed quiet while the woman fought with tears, nodded along, promised her they'd find whoever had done this. But his compassion was evident in the softening of his eyes and the line of his mouth. Dean isn't one to offer useless platitudes, a quality that Benny finds himself appreciating. He's impressed with Dean's expertise and fighting skills, with his seemingly relentless drive to help people he doesn't even know.

But since they met in that dusty roadside diner, Dean hasn't stopped once. It's like he's holding his breath. He smiles at people and shakes their hands, and never hesitates to shield them from a threat. But his smiles don't stay, his touch doesn't linger. His shoulders tense around crowds, and when it's not just the two of them he's constantly on edge.

Around Dean, Benny forgets he's not human. Dean treats him like a friend.

When he's alone among other people, when he has to avoid the sun and check if he has enough AB-negative left in his cooler, then he remembers. The constant back and forth is disorienting and exhausting. It's a struggle, but one he's chosen to face.

A dog barks in the parking lot outside the window. Benny sees Dean pause and tense in the corner of his vision, then go back to cleaning his gun, his head bowed down.

Benny looks at him for a moment. Then asks, careful, “You doin' okay, Dean?”

Dean throws him a brief glance. “'M fine, why?” He sounds instantly defensive.

Benny sighs. “'Cause you're pretending like everything is hunky dory but we both know that ain't true.”

Dean looks irritated for a moment but then he shifts in his seat. Glances at the window, puts his gun on the table and fiddles with the cleaning rag in his hands. “Sam is, uh. He says she makes him happy. He wants me to meet her.” He briefly looks at Benny, then back to the floor. “And I told him that the friend I'm with is, well. Not exactly a hunter. He was–well, you know how it is. He's pissed. He wants you to come with, to check–I don't even know.” He sighs explosively, throws the rag on the table. Rubs his forehead. “I don't think any of that is a good idea.”

Benny thinks about it for a moment, then hums. “Why not?”

Dean looks up, an incredulous expression on his face. “Because I'm not–I'm not a _person_ , Benny!” He sounds almost angry. “I'm not someone you can play _Better Homes and Gardens_ with and invite to your dinner table.” He makes a grimace. “She doesn't know what Sam's been doing, what I'm doing. If this is what he wants–awesome!” He doesn't look happy. “But I should stay out of it.”

He gets up in a rush, goes over to stand at the window and stare out into the badly lit parking lot, his face mostly hidden from view.

The self-loathing evident in his words is alarming, but Benny doesn't think Dean would listen to him right now. So he just waits a beat and then says, “Alright, brother. Just sayin', if you change your mind and want me to come with, I'm in.”

Dean doesn't say anything. It takes a moment more, but then finally the tension eases out of his shoulders and the rigid line of his back. “Thanks, Benny.”

Dean even comes over, sits down on the bed beside him. Close enough that their shoulders brush. He frowns at the TV. “You follow baseball?”

It makes Benny chuckle. He is surprised but relieved that Dean sought his company instead of closing himself off further. He holds the remote out to Dean. “Here, you find something good.”

Dean hesitates for a moment, then takes it. He skips through the channels aimlessly, then suddenly stops and returns to one he had just clicked past. “Wasn't gonna watch that movie again after meeting the guy but nothing else is on.” He must notice Benny's confused expression and adds, “Eliot Ness.” When that doesn't seem to have the reaction Dean was expecting, his eyes almost bug out of his head. “You've never seen _The Untouchables_?!” He sounds offended. He leans back against the headboard, turns the volume higher. “Okay, that's it. Shut up and watch this.”

Except Dean is the one who keeps talking, who comes alive watching this movie he's able to quote verbatim. And it's hard to keep his eyes on the screen when Dean is finally smiling for real, color in his cheeks and light behind his eyes. When he's sitting so close, smelling fresh from his shower and only faintly of gun oil. He's radiating warmth, easy and loose-limbed and happy.

Dean shuts the TV off when the movie ends. “Man, I haven't had that much fun since–” He cuts himself off, clears his throat. His hair is still mussed and soft-looking from showering, and his hands twitch in his lap. They're sitting so close, Benny wouldn't have to reach far to take Dean's hands into his, gently rub his thumbs into Dean's palms until he calms.

Benny stays still and Dean shifts away, gets off the bed. “We should sleep. Early start tomorrow.”

>

It's still dark when Benny wakes several hours later to the sound of splashing water. He raises his head and blinks. The bathroom door is half open but the light isn't on. The tap is running, there's more splashing, then it's turned off. Fabric whispers, then there's silence. And then Dean's voice, hoarse and quiet: “You hear me? You come back. Don't stay there, Cas. _Cas_.”

Benny falls asleep before Dean comes back out. When he wakes again the next morning, Dean is already up, dressed in different clothes than the ones he went to sleep in, sitting at the table with his laptop and reading something with concentration. There's a cup of coffee-to-go at his elbow. He skipped dinner last night, saying he wasn't hungry, drinking a beer while they watched the show. His cheeks are starting to look drawn and pale.

Benny waits until they're in the car and on the road until he asks. Maybe it's not a good plan–Dean might feel cornered, might just turn the music up to cut off conversation, though he's never done that before. But the car seems to ground Dean, so Benny takes the risk.

“You gonna tell me what happened with Cas?”

Dean doesn't react for a moment except for the tightening of his fingers around the steering wheel.

“Cas didn't make it. I couldn't–” He cuts himself off. His voice is tight, wavering on the edge of anger and something else, something rawer. “I don't talk about that.”

Benny glances at him. His jaw is tense, his eyes hard.

“Alright,” Benny says, trying to pitch his voice as low and calming as he can make it. “You don't have to.”

Dean clears his throat. He throws Benny a look like he's surprised by that, like he expected Benny to keep digging. He shifts his hands on the wheel. “Uh. Good.”

>

Dean eats half a bagel for lunch when Benny asks to stop and stretch his legs. He'd stared at the menu almost in confusion, then wolfed down the first few bites and thrown the rest aside, eyes flickering between the tables and the door. The diner is more crowded than the ones they've been at before. “Hey,” Benny says, drawing Dean's focus to him momentarily, “eat up, we got a fang to go after.”

But Dean is already digging through his pocket and throwing some bills on the table. “I'm not hungry.”

Only, he is. Benny heard his stomach growl about an hour ago. But Dean seems unaware of it.

After this hunt, he needs to sit Dean down. Find a motel with a stove, have him eat somewhere away from all the things that make him nervous.

Dean's black car crunches over the gravel, and he eases it back onto the road, careful in a way he isn't with himself. “Think I'm gonna head to the coroner's first when we get there. You good with checking the park?”

>

They find the unfortunate bastard easy. He's a bitten, unable to control his instincts and gone mad with hunger.

The obvious plan was for Dean to draw it out with his human scent and the beat of his heart. And it does work–they've only been in the park for about an hour, in the dark between the trees but close to the badly-lit path, when he can hear something come closer. Benny's keeping his distance, but stays near enough to keep Dean in his sights. With luck, the wolf will be crazed enough with hunger he won't notice anything but Dean's heartbeat until it's too late.

Dean has noticed the wolf by now, too, but lets him come close. The wolf has his back to Benny; it won't be a problem to finish the poor sap off.

Except Dean lets him in too close. Loses his footing, and the wolf throws him to the ground, is on him in a second.

Benny curses and runs.

The wolf is so preoccupied with breaking through Dean's defense so it can pry his ribcage open and tear out his heart, it never hears Benny coming. He grabs it by the neck, forces its head back and pierces through its chest with the silver blade Dean gave him. It gasps around a broken howl and then sags, and Benny heaves it up and lets it fall to the side.

“The hell was that, Dean?!”

Dean is gasping for breath, his face pale and beaded with sweat. He tries to get up and then groans, curls a shaking arm over his side. He smells of his own blood, but not a lot. Likely the wolf's weight pressing him down broke a couple ribs.

Benny crouches down, is gentle in heaving him up despite his anger. “Th' body,” Dean gasps out when Benny's got him standing. He's shaking from the adrenaline but smells clammy.

Benny shakes his head, Dean's arm is thrown over his shoulders, his own slung around Dean's waist to support his weight. “Gonna come back for it later, c'mon.”

>

He props Dean up against the headboard of the motel room bed with pillows at his back, makes to get his jacket and flannel off. Dean hisses and quips through gritted teeth, “Buy me dinner first.” But he doesn't protest when Benny carefully peels his ruined t-shirt off, dabs with hydrogen peroxide at the claw marks over his heart. Maybe because he has a hard time breathing.

His left side is bruised where the ribs are broken. He tenses when Benny feels along it. Breathing is clearly painful for him, but it doesn't seem like a lung has been punctured. Bandages would only constrict his breathing further. It's gonna have to heal naturally.

“We got anything stronger than beer?” Dean looks at him, trying to smirk. His eyes are glassy.

Benny sighs, decides the lecture is gonna have to wait some more. “You, my friend,” he says, trying for calm but stern, “are gonna drink water. And put something in your bread basket. No discussion.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yes, nurse.”

He helps Dean into a fresh t-shirt and flannel because he complains about being cold. He watches him drink a glass of water and then leaves to get him something to eat.

When he comes back, Dean is passed out, his breaths shallow and raspy. He's shivering.

The only edible looking things Benny found at the gas station down the road–nothing else was near enough–were a sandwich in a plastic carton and a tiny box of cup-a-soup. He heats some water for the soup with the kettle beside the coffee machine, pours it into a cup with a faded floral pattern.

Dean mumbles a protest when Benny sits down on the bed and shakes his shoulder, blinks at him in confusion. He makes a face at the soup, but takes it when Benny gives him a stern look. Benny watches him take tentative sips of it. “You gonna tell me what happened back there?”

Dean's expression darkens. He shifts on the bed, appears to bite back a wince.

“Nothing happened.” He's not looking at Benny, the cup poised at his lips. “Lost my footing.” He takes a deeper breath, and the lines around his mouth deepen with pain.

Benny just looks at him. “Dean–”

But Dean interrupts him, rough. “It happens.”

Benny lets it lie, for now.

Dean picks at his sandwich more than eating it, finally shakes his head when he pushes the half-empty cup at him and Benny doesn't take it at first, grimacing. “Nauseous.”

>

Dean has fallen into a fitful sleep by the time Benny comes back from burying the body. He was careful driving Dean's car–thing's a beauty, but quite temperamental. He leaves the light off, sits down at the small table and cleans their weapons. Dean still has the ax he'd used in Purgatory in his trunk. Has neither used it nor thrown it out so far.

Very faint, the smell of Dean's blood still lingers in the air. He wishes he couldn't smell it.

His pit of bitterness and fear of himself has surfaced less and less ever since he hasn’t been alone anymore. But every so often, in the dark, it finds him again.

It's still not that late, but after he's put their weapons away and “eaten”, he lies down on the bed facing the window. He dreams of a stormy gray sea and burned-out shipwrecks piled at a nameless shore, and wakes to the sound of crying.

For a moment, he can't identify the sound. He turns, confused, towards the other bed, then stops when he sees Dean's shoulders shake, the glint of water reflecting light down his cheeks. He's still asleep, propped up by the pillows, his head moving restlessly from side to side.

Benny gets up, knee-walks over the mattress to take Dean gently by the shoulders and say his name.

Dean jerks awake with a gasp, groans when he inhales too deep. But he seems unaware of his injury, grips Benny's forearm tightly and stares up at him with a wild look in his glazed eyes. “We gotta go back, now!” His voice is hoarse and he blinks in confusion when he struggles to breathe.

Benny frowns at him, “What are you talking about, man?”

Dean grips his arm tighter, sounding frantic when he hisses, “The mountain! He's still there, I'm not leaving here without him!”

Benny feels heaviness settle in his chest. His voice is soft with sympathy when he says, “Dean, it was just a bad dream. Okay? You gotta calm down.”

Dean just stares at him in incomprehension, his chest rising and falling too fast with his panic. He smells like fever and cold sweat and Benny makes to press a hand against his forehead, but Dean bats it away, starts to struggle against him. “Fucking let me go! I need to get back up there–”

Benny holds onto his shoulders, tries to hold him still so he doesn't aggravate his injuries.

“Dean–”

Dean fists his hands in Benny's shirt, shakes his head. “No! You don't understand, it's _my_ fault–” His breath is hitching, his voice shakes. Tears make fresh lines down his face, but he doesn't seem to be aware of them, feverish eyes blurry in the dark. “It's my fault that he's, he's–” He chokes on a sob, and Benny carefully gathers him close. He tenses momentarily when Benny lays an arm over his shoulders and cradles the back of his head with the other, but then the fight goes out of him. He tucks his face against Benny's neck, struggles to breathe through the sobs wracking his body.

Benny strokes over his back, his hair, starts rocking him gently from side to side. “You did enough, Dean. It's okay, shhh, it's okay.”

It takes a long time, but finally Dean calms and falls into an exhausted slumber. Benny only briefly leaves him to wet a washcloth with cold water in the bathroom, digs through Dean's bag for some Tylenol. The fever isn't dangerously high and the cuts don't smell infected. Dean wakes when he lays the cloth on his forehead, and Benny presses a cup with water against his lips, coaxes him into drinking. He means to watch over him from the other bed, but then Dean’s fingers curl into his shirt when he makes to get up. He sits back down. Tries to catch Dean's eyes but Dean has his face turned away. “You want me to stay?” Dean's only reply is to tug at his shirt again.

Benny feels fondness spread through him, though his soul still feels heavy with sadness. He maneuvers them so that he's leaning against the headboard with Dean lying back against his chest, curls an arm loosely around him to hold him up. Dean falls back asleep, his mouth open slightly with his shallow breaths.

His fever breaks in the early morning and Benny leaves shortly afterward to get him something more to eat. The sky is clear today and his shades tinge the world a grayish blue. But he enjoys the cool morning air, the slight breeze. Barely anyone is up yet. The gas station clerk eyes him and his shades a bit warily, but brews him a coffee without question, his back turned, his hands lazy. Benny rubs absently at his chest while he waits. He had barely moved while Dean slept. It's strange, now, to not feel the beat of his heart so close.

He used to think, after Andrea, that was it. He'd never feel this warm and alive in someone's presence ever again.

The clerk puts his coffee on the counter, a thin film of milk frothing on the surface like sea foam.

“Anything else?”

>

The shower is running when he comes back. He sits down at the table, opens his cooler.

Dean's cheeks are flushed from the hot water when he comes out. He's changed into different clothes, avoids Benny's eyes when he rasps out a “Morning”.

Benny doesn't comment on it. “How you feelin'?” he asks, watching Dean grimace when he gingerly bends down to put on socks.

Dean glances at him briefly, then focuses on his feet, clears his throat. “Better.” He comes over, looks down at the coffee and the sandwich set out for him. He sits down, picks up the coffee cup, sets it down again. Shifts on his seat so he's facing away from Benny and towards the room, fidgets with his empty hands. “Thank you, for–” He trails off and motions vaguely, his posture hunched, like he's trying to hide in plain sight.

Benny sighs, puts the blood bag away. “No need to thank me, man.”

Dean appears to fight with himself for a moment, then the tension drains out of his shoulders. He looks down at his hands in his lap, the fingers curled around nothing. “I don't usually– ” He cuts himself off again, looks frustrated. Rubs at his forehead. “I don't know what happened.”

He appears utterly lost. It makes Benny want to walk over and hold him by the shoulders, let him lean on him. Instead, he gets up, rinses out a glass at the tiny sink and fills it with fresh water. Holds it out to Dean. “You're exhausted. And dehydrated, so.” Dean huffs out a breath, but after a moment, he takes the water from Benny's hands.

>

Dean starts looking for hunts again, and Benny puts his foot down.

“Dean, you could use a break. I could use a break.”

Dean fights him on it, because of course he does. But it's not pride that is blazing in his eyes, or a false sense of superiority. It's despair, and grief, and guilt.

Benny sits at the table, calm but determined, while Dean paces erratically back and forth in the narrow space between the beds and the door. Finally, he stalks over to the window, stares out into the parking lot for several minutes with an unreadable expression on his face. His voice is rough and sounds brittle when he suddenly asks, “Where would we even go?” His tone isn't derisive but on the edge of hopeless, as if he doesn't believe there could ever be a place of rest for him.

Benny would like to walk over to him, put a hand on his back and give him physical reassurance and comfort. But he can't, so he just sighs and says, “Little café down in Carencro is looking for someone to cover their night shift. Sounds like the right kinda deal for me. And there's rooms to rent above it.”

Dean has turned halfway towards him, but can't seem to quite meet Benny's gaze. He looks tired, one corner of his mouth tugging up into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. “And what would _I_ do? I kill shit, Benny.” He turns back to the window, arms crossed over his chest, shoulders slumped. “There's not really a place out there for me.”

The finality of it makes Benny hurt deep down, a cold black well that echoes his own words back at him, _I think we're all damned_. But this time, he refuses to listen to it. Last time he stared out into the shadows and wouldn't move an inch, Dean spoke to him, refused to leave him. Took his arm, and led him away to the water.

Benny gives him a moment, and then asks, smiling encouragingly even though Dean can't see it right now, “How about we try and see?”

>

They leave an hour later. Dean insists on driving, even though he holds himself stiffly and moving the arm on his injured side clearly pains him. Benny lets him anyway. He doesn't wanna cage Dean in. And he could use the time to nap, seeing as he barely got any shut-eye last night.

When he wakes up again, Dean has the music on low and has relaxed considerably. He even throws Benny a quick grin when he sees he's awake, teases him, “Morning, sunshine.” Benny squints at him and grumbles, digs out his shades. It's far too bright outside. He's really looking forward to that night shift.

Benny suggests they stop early that night, and though Dean grouses about it for a while, he eventually complies. He shuts himself in the shower, probably to try and soothe his sore muscles with the hot water. He still holds himself carefully after emerging, moves far slower than usually. He sits down near Benny on one of the beds, squints at the black-and-white movie Benny has started watching mostly out of boredom, and angles his head to the side like he's got a crick in his neck he can't get rid of. Benny hesitates for a moment, then reaches out and lightly lays his palm on Dean's neck. “Let me?”

Dean stiffens for a moment but then relaxes, turns his head away and coughs, sounding almost embarrassed. “Uh, yeah, okay. Go for it.”

He shifts into a better position behind Dean and starts kneading Dean's neck and shoulders with both hands, careful to never stray farther than that. But Dean doesn't flinch away once, in fact relaxes completely after several minutes with a deep sigh. His hair is still wet, his skin soft and warm from the shower where it isn't covered with fabric. The TV is still on but neither of them pays attention to it. Benny turns the volume off at some point and Dean clears his throat in the sudden silence, tugs at the front of his flannel. “I could, uh, take this off? That'd make it easier, right?”

He doesn't wait for a reply, just unbuttons his shirt and slides his t-shirt over his head.

Benny swallows heavily, then smoothes a hand down the broad expanse of Dean's back, careful to avoid the dark bruising on his left side. Neither of them speak a word. At some point, Dean lies down on his front, exhales shakily and closes his eyes while Benny massages the tension out of his muscles, his left thigh pressed again the warmth of Dean's right side. Dean falls into a light doze while it gets darker outside and Benny continues to sit on the bed with him for a while, just stroking a hand up and down his back.

When the change in Dean's breathing and slowing of his heartbeat tells him he's asleep, he turns the TV off and slips out of their room for a while. Walks along the road for a few hours, relishes the cool night air and the stars he can catch sight of beyond the clouds once in a while. His palms still tingle with the warmth of Dean's skin, and he finds himself absent-mindedly rubbing his fingertips together. He's missed this kind of closeness with someone else. But the way his soul feels, elated and weighed down at once, tells him it isn't just that.

Dean has barely moved when he gets back, still lies with his head at the end of the bed, his face turned away from the door and towards the window. The curtains aren't fully closed, throwing a pattern of hazy moonlight over the covers, over Dean's legs and shoulders.

Benny sits back down near Dean at the same spot against the headboard and looks outside for a while, trying to calm his mind. It takes some time for him to notice that Dean isn't asleep anymore. When he turns to look at him, Dean meets his eyes, but doesn't say anything. He lifts himself up on one elbow, takes a light hold of Benny's wrist and tugs until Benny is stretched out beside him on his side, facing him.

Dean peers into his eyes as if searching for something, but finally sighs and closes his eyes again, breathing evening out. He’s relinquished his hold of Benny's hand but hasn’t turned away from him, the space between them so little it wouldn't take much to lean forward and feel Dean's breath against his mouth. Benny stays where he is and listens to Dean's heartbeat and lets himself drift until the light comes back.

>

The first few days at _Guidry's Cajun Café_ are slow and relaxing. Benny enjoys the presence of the woods nearby, the smell of fresh coffee inside and the smooth wooden surfaces and warm colors. Dean sleeps most of the first day but soon gets antsy, obviously not used to anything that isn't constant movement and alertness, especially not after a year of fighting for his life. It's still early and Benny is preparing gumbo with Elizabeth, enjoying the company of the tough and lively young woman.

“Could I uh, could I take a serving up to my friend? He's kinda going through a rough time,” he asks while he chops the fresh parsley. Elizabeth smiles at him in understanding. She's not the one renting out the handful of rooms above the café, but Dean has been down here a couple times. He smiled broadly at her and shook her hand, but his eyes were guarded, as if he didn't believe he'd be welcome for long.

“Of course,” she says, then adds, “By the way, does he happen to be handy? My truck's been making this awful noise and I really don't need it breaking down on me.”

Dean fixes her truck, and gets a couple free meals in return. Then the camper of one of their regular customers breaks down–Elizabeth very accurately calls the thing a death trap–and Dean spends about a week on it. He's looking healthier, has been smiling more. Benny knows he's going to go hunt again once he runs out of odd maintenance jobs. And Benny's gonna come with, when he can. Hopes they might find some sort of balance, eventually.

For now, he enjoys their time together. Enjoys having a place to stay, even though all the wood furniture in their room is mismatched and the stove in the tiny kitchen only has two ranges. It's homey, and it's warm, and the shower doesn't have weird stains. They rented one room with two beds–one room being the cheaper option, but even though neither of them spoke of it, Benny felt like they both knew it wasn't the only reason. Something has shifted since that night Dean had let Benny touch him for the first time, is now a blend of hesitant closeness and unspoken possibilities. They end up on the same bed a couple times more, Benny dozing while Dean watches something on his laptop, Benny massaging Dean's back after he’s been bent over an engine all day. It's difficult to keep his desire in check then, when Dean is so close and he can feel his whole body strain to be closer yet.

It isn't always that way. Dean is by turns open, unguarded, and stand-offish, almost shy. The sad look that sometimes comes over his face when he stares outside, and the way he still barely sleeps make obvious how heavily the guilt is still weighing on him. Having people around seems to help Dean–helps Benny as well–but he knows these kind of wounds need a lot of time to heal.

They're living one the edge of the calm sea, both of them. Not quite able to cross over, to just _be_ , merely breathing in the fresh air from above the water and trying to hold it in their lungs. Benny needs to leave every few days for a bit to stock up on his “food”, needs to constantly stay on the look-out for other hunters, for other vamps who still know him from before. Someone might slip up in the kitchen one day and he fears not being able to control himself. But Dean is there, and it helps how he doesn't bat an eye, how he never turns away even though he knows what Benny is and what he used to do.

Dean talks with his brother again, usually with Benny or anyone else out of earshot. He's relieved, because it was clear from the start how much Dean has missed him. He hopes that eventually, Dean will feel enough like himself again to meet up with Sam and his lady. Hopes that he'll let Benny tag along, even though it'd be difficult and awkward as hell. It would mean moving forward.

It's been about three weeks when he comes into their room after having finished downstairs and finds Dean arguing with someone on the phone. The early morning is dull and gray with rain clouds, and he hesitates in the door. Is about to close it again to allow Dean some privacy when Dean hits the windowpane he's been leaning against with his fist, “You got no clue what you're talking about, Sam! ...Oh, yeah? Well fucking _don't_!” He hangs up and lets the phone drop carelessly on the floor, leans heavily against the window and rubs his hands over his face.

Benny hovers in the doorway for another moment, then comes in and closes the door behind himself. He doesn't go over to Dean but sits down on the bed closest to the window, giving him space, and waits. Dean stares outside with a face like stone for a long moment, then abruptly turns around and angrily throws the rag he's apparently been cleaning with on the floor, hisses out a “Fuck!” He paces erratically, then suddenly lets himself fall on the bed Benny is still sitting on, on his back and with his feet on the floor. He rubs at his forehead with both hands. “'M gonna drive up to my brother in a couple days, I think. Shit is getting ridiculous.” He stops the motion of his fingers for a brief moment to throw Benny a glance. His eyes look dry but slightly red-rimmed. “You're welcome to tag along, just don't take it personally when he's suspicious as hell, which he'll be.”

It makes Benny smile a bit. “I got it, Dean.”

Dean just nods, keeps his hands over his eyes. They stay like that for several minutes, and Benny is close to dozing off from the gentle sound of the rain outside when Dean suddenly speaks again, his voice low and strangely hoarse. “You're not a replacement, Benny, you know that, right?”

Benny blinks his eyes open, looks at Dean in surprise, but Dean is still shielding his expression from him. His breathing has quickened and he's tense.

Benny sighs, tries for reassuring when he says, “I know that, Dean.”

Dean swallows and then rolls over, turns his back to Benny.

Benny hesitates for a moment and then adds, “You haven't treated me as anything other than your friend, Dean.”

Dean makes a sound like he’s trying to laugh but it comes out choked instead. He curls closer around himself and asks, his voice brittle, defeated, “What if I wanted more than that?”

For a moment, Benny doesn't move. There's just the sound of the rain outside, but he feels an impossible warmth spreading through his chest, making his fingertips tingle. He shifts and lies down behind Dean, close enough he can feel his body heat without having to reach out. He rests his forehead between Dean's shoulder blades and closes his eyes. “Then I'd say I can't replace what you've lost and I'm not gonna try to. That I just wanna be with you.”

Dean's breath hitches, his voice sounds raw and disbelieving when he asks, “Why?”

Benny reaches out and soothingly strokes Dean's upper arm, nuzzles the back of his neck and kisses him there. “'Cause you're warm, and kind, and beautiful. You make me happy.” He shifts closer, presses his cheek against Dean's shoulder. “You treat me like a person.”

Dean doesn't reply but he reaches back for Benny's hand, rolls onto his front and tugs at him until Benny is draped on top of him. He sighs when Benny presses more kisses against his neck, when he slides his hands under Dean's shirt and up his back. Dean smells and tastes warm and a little soapy, but underneath it is the sharp enticing smell of pheromones. He moans when Benny kisses up his spine, shifts impatiently under him when Benny takes his time undressing them.

“I'm clean,” Dean says when Benny drapes himself back over him.

Benny hums and rubs his stubbled cheek against Dean's shoulder, making him shiver. He's pressed against the small of Dean's back, swollen thick and pulsing with need. “Can I touch you?” Dean sucks in a breath and nods. His eyes are squeezed shut. He shakily fumbles for Benny's hand, heaves himself up a bit and guides it down between his legs. He shudders and groans when Benny takes him in hand, his cock twitching and wet with pre-come. Benny strokes him torturously slowly, rubs himself against Dean's ass, mouths at his jaw. “Can I see you, Dean? Wanna see you.”

Dean is making punched out, breathy sounds of pleasure. He nods shakily, sounds out of breath and a little bit nervous when he says, “Yeah, okay.”

Benny gently lifts him up with an arm around his waist, sits back against the headboard and pulls Dean into his lap. Dean exhales and lets his forehead rest against Benny's cheek. They both groan when Benny takes the both of them in hand, the sensitive heads bumping together and shooting lightning bolts of pleasure up his spine, deep down into his testes. Dean's breath is hot against his throat, he's kneading the meat of Benny's thighs with his hands. Benny rests his other hand on the back of Dean's neck, slips his fingers into his hair. Presses kisses against the side of Dean's face until Dean lifts his head, meets his mouth, opens for him with a moan. Dean's thighs start to shake and he pants against Benny's mouth when he spills between them. The glow of him, the feeling of Dean's pleasure in his hands, are enough to tip Benny over the edge as well. He instinctively gathers Dean close while he rides it out, and Dean tucks his face against his neck.

Minutes pass while they both slowly come down but neither of them moves. Dean is holding onto Benny's shoulders, his softening cock nestled right next to Benny, although the sensitivity makes both of them shudder a bit. Benny strokes a hand up and down Dean's back, feeling sated and light with joy. “You gonna let me up so we can get clean?” Dean grumbles something unintelligible against his shoulder but slides off him to ungracefully flop down on his back, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling gently. Benny regards him with a smile, then goes to clean himself up in the bath. He comes back with a warm wet towel, gently cleans up Dean's stomach and in between his thighs.

Dean catches his hand just as he's about to turn away, opens his eyes, the look that he directs at Benny a blend of vulnerability and longing. Benny lets Dean draw him down onto the bed again. Curls around him and pulls the covers up, lets Dean put his head on his outstretched arm and rests the other low on his stomach. Dean seems to hesitate for a moment, then he reaches up, lays his hand over Benny's, lightly intertwines their fingers. He falls asleep in Benny's arms, and the feeling is so exhilarating, Benny keeps his eyes open for a long time and watches the rain splatter against the glass.

The world outside is moving forward, restlessly, without consideration for them.

But this, here – right this moment. It's like the peace above the water, held warmly in their hands.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Poetry at the beginning is my own


End file.
